Title: Mystery
Author: Tesla
Locale: faux-Uzbekistan, faux-Azerbaijan
Rating: R. Some four letter words.
Spoilers: None, but set way before the advent of Will
Keyword: MSR
Probability: Low
Archive: Anywhere, anytime
Disclaimer: Chris Carter and 1013 created Mulder and Scully. The
characters seem to have some time on their hands, so I borrowed them.
Feedback: tesla@hiwaay.net
Advisory: This story is a sequel to "Miracle".
Notes at the end.
Today: Intersections lack size and boundaries.
They were stuck in Erzurum, because an earthquake had disrupted all
train
travel. Scully, Mulder and "Smith", the CIA operative had pooled
their
resources had been able to get out of Uzbekistan, but they couldn't
get any
further than Azerbaijan, due to a worker's strike in Georgia. Once
they were in Georgia, they should be able to contact the American
consulate. They were leaving through a different route than they had
entered the region, and both the men were keyed up and wary. They
were waiting on their money; they were waiting for the phone lines to
be repaired; they were just waiting. Mulder looked as deeply unhappy
as Scully had ever seen him. He had never been this long without a
Coca-Cola, without a cell phone.
Scully, of course, still wore her sunglasses and thick headscarf. It
had bothered her at first. Now, the sense of an alien culture
permeated her very skin. Different languages flowed around them, with
not even the slightest hint of a western European word. They weren't
in the tourist section, but the workers' section of the city, so
there weren't many traces of the global Americanization she always
heard about. The clocks were the only things she could read; yet the
information meant nothing to her. Time wasn't important.
It was almost like a vacation.
All her life, she thought, she had worried about the future and
grieved
over the past. She could barely remember a time when she could
be in the moment, understand and experience the right here and right
now,
without trying to plan ahead or document what she had done.
She flipped open the "Ladies' Oracle" pamphlet that was in one of the
books.
" Intersections lack size and boundaries." Very helpful.
Mulder had found his way to a bank, and managed to get a wire
transfer request
of funds to his charge card , before the
strikes, or the earthquakes, shut down further travel or
communication. The
problem was, they didn't have the money yet. So they couldn't even
change
their accommodations from the one room across from the railroad
station. There
was a large western hotel in the city center, that had a restaurant
and bar and
double beds and showers. But until the money came through, they
couldn't go
there. And they would have to buy new clothes, because they were
still dressed
as back-country Uzbeks.
Mulder and Smith sat out at the cafe and played chess, while they
waited. Smith
would periodically disappear to seek out some spy contact, and then
Mulder
would nap in the sun.
Scully was reading her way through a stack of Australian murder
mysteries in paperbacks, left by some considerate traveler, once upon
a time when there was a thriving tourist industry. She would look up,
through her sunglasses, as she sat between the men and the white-
washed wall of the building, to look at Mulder. The sun brought out
the flecks of copper in his thick hair, and his green eyes were not
uncommon here. This area had been fought over so often the ethnic
make-up was quite diverse. "Your blue eyes stand out, though," Smith
had said, almost teasingly. "We better not take a chance. And
there's no sense in making anyone think we're western."
She wanted to have Mulder to herself; she wanted to be in a room
alone with him. He had kissed her, once, but thoroughly. She still
felt that kiss. He had talked about testing the miracle, and nipped
her ear. Then he had turned around and gone to sleep. Scully had not
slept.
Was it any wonder she was brooding about it three days later? The ear
nip.
That wasn't like Mulder at all. She hadn't even realized he could
sound so
light-hearted. That ear nip was gentle, almost not romantic at all.
Mulder
took everything with deadly seriousness, and
covered it up with a barrage of jokes and
sarcasm, and pretended interest in tabloid
newspapers. This flippancy was so ingrained that she was unnerved
when he didn't
display it.
Maybe she had dreamed it.
Well, she told herself, he wouldn't have made love to her in a room
full of
strangers. He wouldn't do anything while Smith was still with them.
Smith had
to be with them, because he was the only one who spoke the language.
Scully realized suddenly she was staring at Mulder, one finger
holding her
place in the paperback. He was already tanned on his face and hands.
In
the stubble on his cheeks were red glints. His eyelids moved
slightly, as he slept, his eyes tracking something in sleep. His
chair leaning on two legs was tilted back beside her. She took a
swift glance around them. Other stranded travelers were doing the
same thing; killing time, waiting for the trains to resume their
schedule. There was a holiday atmosphere, the other parties all
going placidly about the business of drinking coffee or sunning,
reading the local newspaper, smoking, or playing cards. The radio
blared tinnily from inside the pub, the music sounding strangely New
Age.
It's not uncivilized, she told herself, it's just not my
civilization. She
turned back to Mulder, who was as guarded in his sleep as he was
awake.
Why had he kissed her? She was obsessing, but there wasn't anything
else to think about. She looked back at the sidewalk.
Smith came up, looking compact and nondescript. Not American at
all. She knew he was dangerous; she had seen him ready to put
himself
between her and a bullet. He was younger than Mulder, but seemed
infinitely
harder. He seemed like Krycek, that rat bastard. That was why Smith
made
her uneasy. He was playing some deeper game than he wanted to tell
them,
some game for which he wouldn't hesitate to abandon them. Yet he
hadn't.
He sat down in the metal chair beside Mulder, and unscrewed a bottle
of water.
"What have you been doing?" Mulder said, motionless.
"I found a safe house," Smith said, holding his bottle in front of
his mouth.
Mulder opened his eyes and let the chair fall forward on all four
legs. He
yawned, and said, around his hand, "And what is the Agency doing here
in
Erzurum?"
Smith raised his hand to signal a waiter before replying. "Well,
we're busy
little bees, you know, busy all the time." With a careless gesture,
he brushed his hair back and Scully saw the blond roots under the
brown dye. "We can go tomorrow, so it looks like we took the bus."
"Should we take the bus?" Mulder asked. His voice was pitched so
quietly
Scully wanted to look at Smith to see if he could hear him.
"No. Even if the bus has three days' head start, if the train is
running on the
third day, it'll beat the bus to Ankara. Too many stops, too many
breakdowns,
and the roads won't be repaired as quickly as the railroad."
"Do you trust him?" Mulder said in her ear. She sat perched on the
fence beside the canal path, watching the water flow. He was standing
behind her; arms braced on the rail on either side of her, chin
digging into her neck. She could feel the heat of him all along her
shoulders and back. She shrugged.
"Me too," Mulder said. "I get the funny feeling something's up. He's
worried about something." He was brushing her scarf with his mouth
at
every word. She felt it in her scalp, as if her hair follicles had
suddenly
regrown nerve endings. She forced herself to reply calmly. "Maybe
he's worried we won't help him?"
"I don't know how we can help him. We're lost here." He nudged her
with his
chin. "Lost." But he didn't sound too concerned.
"He wants something from us, Mulder, or he wouldn't be here with us.
Besides,
I think you have a talent for this stuff."
He moved away from her. "When we get back, I'm beating the shit out
of Skinner."
Taking another step away, he said, "There's the little bee now.
Let's go up to the room and count our honey." Scully glanced over her
shoulder, and saw Smith disappearing up the stairwell of the hotel.
She slid down from the fence, adjusted her headscarf, and followed
Mulder across the dusty road to the inn. Scully swerved to make a
visit to the hall bathroom, mercifully empty at this time of day.
When she emerged, and put her hand on the doorknob, the lack of sound
was odd. Her hand automatically going to a phantom holster, Scully
threw open the door.
Smith and Mulder were fighting, as silently as two scorpions in a
bottle, sprawled on the floorboards in the middle of the room.
She couldn't see who was winning, since they were both rolling in the
red dust. A water bottle had spilled, making the dust look like
blood.
After a heart-stopping moment, Scully realized that Mulder had his
knife held to
Smith's throat. All she could hear was their ragged breathing.
"Who were you calling?" Mulder panted. Smith moved his head, but
Mulder was a
dead weight on him. Smith was using both hands to try to push
Mulder's arm away
from him, but to no avail. Mulder's knife was bearing inexorably
down.
Scully looked around, and spotted a cell phone lying on the floor
next to
Mulder's backpack. She scooped it up and checked the screen. A D.C.
number.
"Washington, Mulder," she said. "He was calling Washington."
Mulder's shoulder jerked; he obviously hadn't realized she was there.
Smith made
a convulsive movement, but Mulder, with a hiss, jabbed at his
throat. "Call the number, Scully." It came out in a breath, as Smith
struggled in his grip.
"Fine," Smith gasped. "Kill us." He laid there, eyes locked with
Mulder's. A bead of sweat dripped off his hairline, landing almost
audibly in the dusty floor.
"Let him go, Mulder," she heard herself saying. Mulder flicked his
eyes towards
her, and didn't do anything she could detect, but Smith stopped
struggling.
"I have to report in within a certain number of days," Smith
said. "It's okay
for you two, no one gives a flying fuck, but my....hive....wants to
know where
the worker bees are."
"It's the royal jelly," Mulder said, the knife still poised at
Smith's throat.
Scully couldn't see his face, but Smith could, and clenched his teeth
in a
grimace.
"Mulder, we may not get out of here alive without him," Scully
said. "So what if
his agency knows where we are? They probably knew we were with him
for a week."
"Why didn't you tell me you had a cell?" Mulder said finally, and let
Smith go.
The other man rolled away from Mulder. "You and I don't tell each
other
everything. And I just got it." He got to one knee, swiping the
sweat and dirt
from his face with his shirtsleeve. Scully tossed the cell phone on
to Smith's bed. Mulder stood, braced, the knife held steady in his
hand.
"What are we doing here?" she asked. "Stop playing the little games
and just
tell us. You know, we're less likely to get in your way if we know
what you're
doing." The men didn't seem to have heard her, standing there, ready
to fight again. "Hey!" she said, clapping her hands. "Boys!"
Mulder glanced at her. "Oh, we domestics don't understand global
politics," he said scornfully. He sat down abruptly on the other bed
and began taking coins and crumpled paper money out of his
pockets. "I do understand that we need to go to the cafe before it
closes, if we want to eat cheaply."
"I'll go. One of you can come with me, if you like. It'll look
peculiar if we
all go to get the food, and neither of you knows the language."
"I want to go," Scully said. "I'm tired of sitting down." Mulder
handed her the
money, and at her look, Smith wordlessly held the door open for her.
The kitchen had already closed, but other travelers were going to the
Turkish version of the corner fish and chips shop, so Smith elected to
follow them. Scully was almost amused how she was able to understand
what was happening, even without a word of the language.
They were threading their way through the car park, headed to the
shops, when
Smith lunged at her and knocked her to the asphalt, clamping one hand
cruelly hard on her mouth as they fell together. She heard steps
coming
towards them, coming, passing without a pause, moving on down the
street.
Smith lay on her, squeezing all the air out of her lungs, his hand
jammed on
her open mouth. He took a breath to speak, but before he could,
Scully
bit his finger. Hard.
"Bitch," he hissed, shaking his hand in pain. "Why'd you do that?"
"Why'd you do this?" she countered, and pushed him off.
"I didn't have the time to explain everything in a politically
correct manner,
like your partner does," Smith said, examining a tear in one knee of
his pants.
"Shit, I liked these."
"Which partner would that be?" Scully demanded. "Not Mul---him,
upstairs."
"Oh, hell. There's a pause while he formulates everything for you.
If he had
seen that guy coming, he would have said, 'Don't argue, just duck,
I'll explain
it later,' and the local Russian agent would have seen you." He
stood up, and
extended a hand to help her to her feet. His knuckles were still
bleeding. So
he had least taken the brunt of the fall onto the pavement. "Of
course, he wouldn't have known the local Russians."
"Well, you can go get the food, yourself. You'll enjoy it more
without me."
She left him standing there, and went up to the room to wash her
scraped palms, leaving Smith outside on guard duty. Mulder was at
the basin, shirtless,and scooping up handfuls of water to rinse soap
from his chest. He turned, startled, and she stopped dead in the
doorway. His teeth flashed in the semi-dark. "You keep walking in
on me like this, Scully, I'm gonna get ideas. Close the door."
"You keep saying that," she said, pushing it closed with one hand
behind her.
"You keep leaving it open," Mulder said, and bent over the sink to
rinse off
the remainder of the soap. He straightened up, watching her
reflection in the
mirror. "What happened?" he asked, his voice changing.
She told him, and concluded by saying, "If he went to that much
trouble to
go alone, I figured I better let him go."
"He probably wants to check out the local international players.
Chasing
each other's tails, that's all these guys ever do." Mulder snorted.
"Yeah, probably none of them ever chased an alien spaceship," Scully
heard
herself saying. To her surprise, Mulder seemed abashed, and he
quietly picked
up his several layers of shirts and began pulling them on. Scully
stepped around
him to wash her hands. When she looked in the mirror, she was
surprised at
how calm, almost bored she looked, when inwardly she was shaking.
Still no money had arrived at the telegraph office, so after a very
unsatisfactory meal of hot rolls filled with a spicy but undefinable
meat, there were still only two beds, and she'd rather sleep with
Mulder than Smith or the floor. Mulder smelled exotically of violets
from his wash. She preferred not to think of what she smelled like.
When she went upstairs to the washbasin, she discovered that
Mulderhad reduced the soap to the size of a quarter, so she didn't
bother. At any rate, Scully didn't want to risk one of them walking
in on her. Smith had bought her a toothbrush and paste, again in
Chinese packaging, so at least her breath was all right. She crawled
wearily to bed. The mattress creaked alarmingly, but it seemed clean
enough. When she got home, she was never going to complain about
laundering her 330-count percale sheets again . Her nice pillow top
mattress, her nightstand and lamp, thebathroom three steps away,
instead of down the hall. It gave her quite a pang of homesickness.
Mulder and Smith left her alone for such a long time that she slowly
realized that they had intended for her to bathe. Too late now. The
door opened. "It's us."
It was Smith. With a deliberate step, he went to his bed. Mulder
was right
behind him, stooping to do something to the bottom of the door after
he closed
it.
"Wedges," Smith said. "So let one of us know if you have to get up."
"I haven't taken a pee that you two didn't know about, this entire
trip," Scully
said dryly.
Mulder stood beside the door, his hand on the light switch. "No more
talking,
campers," he said, and turned out the light. A moment later, she
felt the
mattress bend under his weight, his hand patting the sheet
searching for her. She touched his fingers, and he immediately lay
back, almost
into her arms. She was too startled to respond.
"This is not the menage-a-trois I used to fantasize about in school,"
Mulder
grumbled.
"You snore, and she grinds her teeth," came the voice from the other
bed.
"Fuck you," Mulder said kindly, and turned his back to Smith, facing
Scully. "I'm changing the order in which I'm kicking the shit out of
people," he whispered, yanking the blanket up around them.
"Where do I come on the list?" she whispered back.
"Third, fourth..." he said. "Go to sleep."
"I'm not sleepy,"
Mulder yawned. "I am," he whispered, putting his lips to her ear. "I
could sleep
for a week."
"Stretch out," she managed to whisper. "There's plenty of room. I'm
fine."
After a moment, Mulder lay back, at full length on the bed.
Stealthily, Scully
curled herself beside him, her face close to his shoulder. There was
something
about a bed, not a pallet, not a communal sleeping room, not a
sleeping bag,
that was more intimate than any way they had slept on this journey.
Mulder really was a large person but he never made her feel that he
loomed over her. He shifted, rolling over on his side to face the
room, and
leaning back against her.
She put her face and shoulder against his back, and felt him sigh.
Wakening to Smith's quiet breathing on the other side of the room,
Scully
knew that Mulder, for once, was awake too. Because it felt like the
thing to
do, she wrapped one arm around his waist. "Don't," he said into the
pillow,
barely breathing. She ignored him, and leaned against him. He didn't
react for
a moment, then, with no noise, shifted so that she was pillowing his
heavy head
against her breasts. It felt so good her eyes involuntarily closed.
She
brought her hand up to caress his hair, but he caught it and held it
under his chin.
She didn't realize she was trembling, with cold? with desire? with
fear?
until he straightened away from her, and pulled the blankets back up
around them
both and over their heads. "Okay then," he breathed, before settling
back, a
chaste distance between them.
Then Scully realized that Smith's breathing had changed and he was
awake. She
had a sudden, furious longing to vocalize an orgasm.
She eventually slept, but Mulder was awake when she drifted off, and
awake
when she opened her eyes the next morning. He gave her a long,
unsmiling
look before he rolled out of bed.
She wondered how much sleep he was getting. When she had first opened
her eyes, she had seen tiredness etched around his.
Western Union finally disgorged some of the money Mulder had asked
for, so they were able to get train tickets for the next town. "I
wish I'd bought aspirin,"Mulder sighed, rubbing his forehead. Scully
slanted a glance at him through her sunglasses, but said nothing. He
looked awful, but still tasty. She bit the inside of her mouth. God,
Dana. Get him out of your head. They all three loaded themselves in
the train, where the real tourists looked disdainfully at them and
gave them a wide berth. Mulder coughed, delicately; Scully wondered
if he expected her to soothe his forehead. He squinted in the glare
of sunlight, and said nothing else for hours.
A long, uneventful train ride later, they were in the safe house,
which was actually a second floor apartment in an old building. The
windows
overlooked a courtyard, but there were two bedrooms and a large
kitchen.
There were curtains as well as blinds on the windows, and faded, but
clean,
carpets on the floor. The kitchen had a television, which Mulder
promptly turned
on. He stood, one hip braced on the counter, and she sat at the table.
There was coverage of the earthquake news, and a British comedy
program,
dubbed in Turkish, but Mulder wasn't actually watching. He was
looking at
the lights, at the electrical outlets. Bugs, Scully realized. Mulder
was
reminding her they were probably being monitored. He switched the
television back on to the news. Smith stood, arms akimbo,
concentrating. "The
express railroad seems to be up from here to the capital ," he
commented. "We better get to the station as soon as
it's light." He had a string bag of foodstuffs that he had dumped on
the tiny
table. "There should be plates and stuff."
Mulder disappeared down the hallway, presumably to the bathroom.
Presently, Scully heard the toilet flush and the taps; Mulder
emerged, wiping his mouth.
Smith went down the hallway in his stead. "What I wouldn't give for a
Tylenol
PM," he said. "Are we eating?"
"Yeah, if we heat some water. Smith said we should find what we
need," Scully
replied, absently, holding packets of instant soup.
Mulder had discovered the electric kettle. "Good." But instead of
filling
it with water, he stood, hands flat on the counter. He started to say
something
else, but swallowed hard, and put his hand to his forehead. "Scully,"
he said in
a small voice.
She turned from an idle contemplation of a box of imported English
biscuits.
Mulder was holding on to the counter. There were two spots of high
color on his
cheekbones, and his eyes were closed.
"Mulder?" she said, unbelievingly, a wizened orange falling from her
hand and
rolling across the table.
"I feel dizzy," he said. "I'm sick."
She stood up, and put her palm on his neck. "You're hot. Do you feel
hot? You
may have a fever. Oh, shit, your hand." She seized the hand that had
been
stabbed, and pulled off the bandage. No, it wasn't infected, it was
healing
well and wasn't red.
"We can't go see a doctor," Smith said, from the doorway. "We've got
to get on that train tomorrow morning and get out of here." Coming
inside the room, he reached for the loaf of bread and a knife.
"She's a medical doctor," Mulder said, in faint mockery, and then his
knees
buckled and Scully had to lower him to the floor.
To his credit, Smith left the food, and came to help Scully.
Mulder's skin was
hot and dry to the touch, and he lay very still. "Some local bug, I
bet," Smith
said. "We westerners go down like flies." He stood up, and tossing a
dishcloth
in the sink, turned on the tap.
"Why do we need to leave?" Scully asked, looking up at him. She
accepted the
wet cloth, and began patting Mulder's face. "Smith?"
"I need to recover a disk from the next town," Smith said, crouching
by her.
"But I just have a bad feeling about staying here very long."
"What are your orders regarding us?" she asked, not bothering to
look at
him. Mulder's eyelids flickered slightly, and under her fingertips,
his pulse
grew stronger.
"I'm to keep you two alive," Smith said, reluctantly.
"Are you really Agency?" she asked, deliberately catching Smith's
gaze,
so he wouldn't realize that Mulder was listening.
"Not the one you're thinking of," he said, even more reluctantly. "I
have to
go out, after we eat. I may not be back until morning. Let's put him
to bed,
and I'll leave."
"Where are you going?" Mulder said, rejoining them. His eyes were
bright with fever.
"Your partner will fill you in---if she has to," Smith said, helping
him to
sit up. "Don't puke on my pants, please."
"Not going to," Mulder said, outraged.. Then he had to clutch at Smith
for balance, as they went into the next room.
Naturally, both beds were in the same large drafty bedroom. At least
there was a bathroom in the apartment. Mulder was saying something
under his breath. When he saw her anxious look, he said, louder, "I
came like
Water and like Wind I go."
"Fitzgerald," Smith said, after a pause. "I wish I'd seen you at
Oxford."
"My hair was shoulder length," Mulder said, sitting on the bed, and
slapping
Scully's hand away from his shirt. He began to unbutton it himself,
and said, giving Smith a hard look, "Well, then, 'What, without
asking, hither
hurried whence? And, without asking, wither hurried hence,' Smith?"
"Did it occur to you that I don't know a lot, either?" Smith snapped,
his cheekbones reddening. Scully stared at him in exaggerated
surprise. He turned and left, nearly slamming the outer door.
"Go and lock it," Mulder said, pulling off his shirt. "Do you think I
can take a shower?" He rubbed his forehead fretfully. "Maybe I just
haven't eaten?"
After she checked the locks on the door, Scully helped Mulder into
the bathroom.
It could have been erotic, but it wasn't. There was a shower stall
with a frosted door, and no interior light. Mulder shucked his
clothes and got in the shower before Scully had finished looking for
towels. "Not too cold, Mulder. Lukewarm. I'm right outside."
"Very odd safe house, Scully," he said, over the water. "Like a motel-
--little soaps."
"Are you really that delirious, or is the poetry quoting part of an
act?" she said, raising her chin to pitch her voice over the stall
door. His sleek wet head suddenly appeared, and she didn't let
herself look down through the door.
"I do feel like shit. And it's not an act. The fifth volume of the
Oxford Book of English Verse running through my memory. It's leaking
out." He stepped back under the stream for a moment, and then the
water stopped. Without looking, she handed a towel over the top of
the door, and his unseen hand pulled it out of her grasp, and a
second later, the door opened. Mulder accepted her hand, and sat
down on the closed lid of the toilet, bending over and drying his
hair with a corner of the towel.
"Do you remember poetry when you're sick?" Scully asked, unlacing her
shoes. She
wished she could wash her socks, but there would be no telling when
they'd have
to leave. "I think I'd have noticed a weird symptom like that."
Mulder looked up, startled. "Poetry....no. I mean, I do, but I
remember it most of the time. I read so much in school that I'm on
the verge of a quote all the time. I just learned not to do it when I
came back home. Too gay, according to my dad, you know." He put one
hand on the sink. "Or too English. Funny that parents send a son to
England to be educated and act surprised that he comes back acting
like an educated Englishman." A pause. "Shit. I am delirious. It was
what he said about busy bees---I wondered if he was using some kind
of code in Fitzgerald. He's said some things all along, like he was
trying to see if I would give the counter-sign." He inhaled, and
exhaled shakily. "Scully, I need you to help me stand up." She leapt
to his side, and he draped one long arm over her shoulder and levered
himself upright. With his free hand, he hitched the towel more
securely around his waist. "So what was I quoting?" He sounded
embarrassed. "I must be really losing it."
Odd for Mulder to be embarrassed about anything, she reflected,
helping him negotiate the short hallway. "I don't know what it was. A
poem." She knew he was ill when he crawled into one of the beds, and
ignored the television blaring away in the kitchen.
"As long as it's not John Donne," Mulder said, closing his eyes. "Go
get something to eat, Scully."
It was odd to sit in a Azerbaijani kitchen and watch CNN. She felt
disconnected with the rest of the world. She didn't feel scared, or
worried; she was disconnected with the emotions she usually felt in
the field.
Because this was a straight-to-video movie, she told herself. That's
why. Hard to get worried when you were living a movie. Or a fantasy.
Or a miracle. Outside, the sky grew dark and starry. She was drooping
with sleepiness, but Smith hadn't returned. After taking a shower,
she dragged her shirt and pants back on, and crawled in bed with
Mulder. He was sleeping like someone stunned, and his skin was hot to
her touch.. Odd. Mulder hated being ill, and wouldn't have made up
those symptoms. He always teased her about not wanting to lose
control, but he was the one who was so watchful of himself.
The room was cool, but not unpleasantly so. She put on arm around
Mulder's waist, and went to sleep.
Today: Satisfaction is desire embraced.
She woke up some time later. It was late, but Scully didn't have a
watch. She was lying on her back, cradling Mulder's head on her
shoulder. She ran her hand up his arm, and thought he felt cooler.
His skin was slick with sweat under her fingertips. She touched his
nape, and threaded her fingers through his damp hair.
Mulder stirred, and pinched her nipple. She jumped. He raised his
head, and
she could just make out his features, by the streetlight outside. His
eyes
looked black, but he was smiling. "What are you doing, Scully?" he
asked, his
fingers trailing slowly down the front of her shirt.
"Checking on you," she said. Or rather, attempted to say, because he
slid his hand inside her shirt so he could stroke her breast, and she
gasped.
He was still lying on her, but he had shifted in their sleep so that
he was
lying between her legs. His fever had to have broken, because they
were both
drenched.
"I still have a fever, or is that you?" he asked. He was propped up
on his
elbows and now he was unbuttoning her blouse with one hand. She
swallowed hard,
and he ground his hips into hers. "Would it be both of us?" He
shifted his
position slightly, and at the same time, pulled her shirt open. "Kiss
me,
Scully," he breathed, and dipped his mouth onto hers.
Oh, yes, she had a fever. She felt the kiss to her toes. But he
wasn't
satisfied, because he raised his head. "No, kiss me again. You can do
better
than that," he said, almost laughing, and she brought her hands up to
each side
of his head, and held his face as she opened her mouth to him. He put
one hand
on the waistband of her underpants, and she arched her back so he
could pull
them off, and lie skin to skin.
She wanted to remember every detail, to imprint it all in her mind.
Her
heart was racing and breathing was too ragged. This was Mulder,
who was wrapping her legs around his hips, so she could feel his
erection
throbbing against her; this was Mulder, who was not hesitant, or
intimidated, or
awkward, like her previous lovers; this was Mulder who was stroking
her breast
with a sure touch, as he kissed her, rolling them on their sides so
he could
release her breast and put one large hand between her legs and touch
the
slickness there.
She heard herself saying weakly, "How do you feel?" No! Shit! Turn
off medical
mode! Her face grew even hotter, and she was glad of the dim light.
Mulder snorted. "You tell me," he whispered, and put her hand on his
erection.
She couldn't think of anything at all to say, and he grinned at her,
whispering, "Aren't you going to take my pulse?"
She gave a strangled laugh, almost against her will. Mulder let go of
her and
lay back. "Come on, Scully, it's just like riding a bicycle. Since
you're
worried about my health, you do all the work." He stroked her thigh,
smiling
lazily up at her.
Scully bent to him, touching his face. There were faint dark shadows
etched
around his eyes, and his cheeks were almost gaunt under the
stubble. "Do you
really----" she started to ask him if he felt all right, but her
question died
away as he palmed her breasts, caressing the nipples and stroking up
to cup her
shoulders lightly.
"Stop thinking," he said softly, reading her mind with ease. "This
is supposed
to be fun. Besides, there's no television." He was pulling her
toward him
as he spoke, and she lay on his chest and kissed him. She kissed his
neck, and
his chin, and each eyelid. He sighed, and she could feel him, hard
and throbbing
against her leg.
Stop thinking, Dr. Scully, she told herself. She sat back, crouched
above him and guided him in with both hands. It had been so long,
and she was so tight, despite how wet and ready she felt, it was a
little uncomfortable.
"Take it easy," Mulder said, holding her waist. "Lean back, so I
can..." and she
leaned back so he could stroke her clit. She bared her teeth. "Oh,
you like
that? All right," he said. At the same time, she felt herself open
up and take
him all in, and he exhaled.
When she had fantasized about this happening, she hadn't really
thought of
herself on top, with herself slowly taking in Mulder deeper and
deeper. Or that hecould lay back, all the smooth planes of his chest
and shoulders golden in the
yellow light from the streetlights, smiling up at her in such an
unguarded
moment. She braced herself with one palm one the wall, as Mulder
bucked his hips. "Stay with me, Scully," he said, low. "Stay here."
Then he smiled widely, again.
"If you...say...yee-ha...I'll kill you," she gasped, feeling a wave
of sensation
building up, deep in her pelvis.
"That's not..." Mulder began, but almost yelped as Scully came,
bearing down
on him. She felt him shudder and climax, and they both collapsed.
She lay on him, until the cold air began to chill. She was soaked in
perspiration from her scalp to her feet, and so was Mulder. His
fingers were
tangled in her hair, and he murmured something, which sounded like a
quotation.
"What?" she asked, her lips on his chest.
"Something I remembered," he said, shyly. "Nothing." She laid her
cheek in the
crook of his shoulder, but she was dissatisfied. Something....she
put her hand
flat on his belly.
Mulder's skin was dry and hot under her touch. "You still have a
fever," she
said accusingly, pulling up the blankets around them.
Under her head, his shoulder moved in a shrug. "I'll be all right,"
he said. "Go
to sleep." He stroked her shoulder and back, drawing designs on her
skin.
It was the chill that woke her up, the loss of Mulder's heat on her
body,
simultaneously with his whisper of her name. She opened her eyes to
the silvery
light of pre-dawn, and saw him, wearing only his trousers, flattened
against the
wall beside the door. Even unshaven, gaunt, and with only a water
glass in his
hand, Mulder looked surprisingly dangerous. Then she heard the
stealthy
footsteps in the next room, and her eyes darted around the room for a
weapon.
There was a faint, faint noise on the other side of the door. Someone
was
listening to them.
Scully had the hem of the blanket gripped in her fists, ready to
fling it over
the intruder, when Smith spoke from the other side of the door. "It's
me."
"Come in," Mulder said coolly, holding his glass at the ready.
Smith did, cautiously, flinching when he saw Mulder standing
there. "For
Christ's sake, I'm alone."
Mulder's eyes didn't leave his. "Where were you all night, Beaver?
You know that
June and I worry about you and Wally."
Smith took a step into the room. "Gee, Dad. It took longer than I
thought to
walk to the train station and search it. Especially since no trains
are
running."
"So?" Mulder asked, his expression incredulous.
"So it wasn't there. So now I'm wondering if it was ever there. Why I
was told
to assist you."
Scully, meanwhile, had reached under the blankets and pulled on her
sweatshirt.
The bedding reeked of sex. Clothed now above the waist, she cleared
her throat. "I have a suggestion," she said.
"Yeah?" Mulder seemed to become aware that he was barefoot and
shirtless in a
very cold room, and bent to look for his socks in the pile of his
clothing on the floor.
"I don't think he was supposed to bring us out," she said, looking
not at Mulder
but at Smith. "I think we are bringing _him_ out."
For the first time, Scully thought she saw surprise on Smith's face.
Mulder
looked up, from pulling on a sweatsock. "It fits," he said. "The disk
is just an
excuse. Your bosses just didn't want you there, or thought you may
be
contaminated by being in contact with us, or something. But you
aren't the type
to just come in from the cold, so they told you to bring us back."
"Maybe they thought we'd get him killed for them?" Scully offered,
primly
tucking the blanket around her waist, as Mulder sat back on the bed.
He was
still pale under the dark stubble of beard. Absent-mindedly, he
gripped her foot
through the blanket, as he stared at Smith.
"No," said Smith in a pre-occupied tone. "I'm not that valuable, but
_he_ is. Or
so I've heard." He was standing stock still, obviously thinking
furiously.
Mulder bent down and scooped up the remaining clothes. With delicacy,
he handed
Scully, something she realized were her underpants. Smith had turned
to
look out through the blinds, and she whisked them under the blanket.
Mulder went
to the window, and they began talking in a low voice, as Scully
yanked on her
clothes.
"We can leave now, if you like," Mulder said, pitching his voice
louder. "I'm fine."
Smith's glowered. "We have to clean up in here," he said. "Wipe it
down."
Scully paused, one sock on. "Oh, come on."
["It's Agency protocol, Scully," Mulder said, sounding amused. He
rubbed his eyes, hard, and when he looked over at her, he didn't look
amused at all.
Halfway through the clean-up, Smith came out of the bathroom, holding
a pill bottle in his hand. "Did you take one of these, Mulder?" he
asked, with a peculiar expression.
Mulder glanced up from washing out the coffee cups. "Yeah, I took a
couple of aspirin. Why?" Then his face hardened. "They weren't
aspirin, were they."
Scully said, explosively, "There you are! I knew that one day, one
day, Mulder, you would put your hand in the wrong place! God knows
what was in that!"
"Well, it was---" Smith began, but Mulder threw down the dishcloth.
"This is a safe house, God damn it. It's an aspirin bottle. It even
says Bayer on the side!"
Today: That which indicates nothing, introduces everything.
"Do you often taste stuff---" Smith began, but Mulder cut him off.
"No, I just---mistakenly, I see now---take aspirin for headaches."
But then Mulder spoke again, and they both turned to look at
him. "We're bringing you out," he said, and he was smiling
unpleasantly. "Who's trying to kill you? Everyone"
"Pretty much," Smith said. He looked defiant and vulnerable at once.
Scully
tasted bile in the back of her throat. She'd seen that expression
before, when Mulder had his back against the wall and was bluffing.
Mulder had continued. "What's all this shit about? We, of course,
just went to look at a miracle shrine. One miracle being that we
weren't killed there....what's your racket? And it's not to shadow
us. You're sticking with us because no one would think you'd be
stupid enough to saddle yourself with two other Americans. But what
went wrong?"
Smith bent his head, not looking at them as he buttoned his
jacket. "I can't believe you went to a spring, in the middle of oil
fields. It's all about the oil, Mulder. Where have you been since
1990? Hell, since 1980?"
"Oil? You think we're after regular oil? Like in the ground?"
Scully said wearily, "Black gold. Texas T. You know, Mulder, 'The
first
thing you know, old Jed's a millionaire...' that kind of oil."
Smith seemed to realized his mouth was open, and shut it. "There's
another?"
Sneering, he added, "No, salad oil. What else?"
"How ordinary," Mulder said. Scully could tell he was almost
starting to enjoy himself. He brushed past her to get a bottle of
water from the table,
and there was nothing in that casual contact to infer they had made
love
the night before.
Was it making love? Or was it just sex? He hadn't said anything last
night, hadn't said he loved her. Oh God, God, God, did she say---no.
She would never understand him, never. She looked up from her hands,
her eyes and mouth tragic, and saw Smith watching her. "So all those
people you've been hiding us from---they're after you, and not us?"
she said, sounding drier than usual.
"And here's where Dr. Scully says we should just take our passports
in hand and march to the nearest Embassy and seek help," Mulder
commented, tucking a small packet of biscuits in his coat
pocket. "And our Mr. Smith reminds us Azerbaijan is more dangerous
than Uzbekistan was, and we don't speak the language." He glanced
around the room. "I'm so kicking someone's ass when I get home."
Smith shrugged. "Well, let's go catch the bus."
Scully felt her stomach clenching. "Oh, it would be a bus."
Mulder draped her scarf around her neck. "Shouldn't be too many goats
this time of year." He shoved his wool cap on his head, and within a
visible effort of will, straightened up.
Perhaps Mulder really had a bug, because Scully felt like she had
the 'flu. Her face was hot, and her hands were cold. They were in the
very back of the bus, near the second door, and she was wedged in the
corner between the curved metal side of the bus and Mulder's back. He
stayed in character and didn't touch or talk to her, but surely he
could have whispered in her ear, touched her arm?
And I was obsessing about the earlobe bite, she told herself sourly.
She ached all over, and took surreptitious sips of water from a
bottle in her pocket. There was a buzz in ears that was not
completely connected with her utter inability to understand any of
the languages around her.
She remembered getting out of the bus, and going into the bright
lights of a cafe. The people looked more Western, and wore jeans and
Chicago Bulls jackets and had Walkmans, and plastic carrier bags with
trendy Western chain stores; but there were enough men with the
tribal head wraps, and enough women in scarves to keep her silent.
She didn't need Mulder's downcast eyes and wary expression to warn
her.
She couldn't eat the stew that was set before them, and sat,
crumbling a roll, before they went upstairs. The rooms were tiny, and
contained only a cot, but it took some time for her to realize that,
at last, she had a room alone.
She threw herself on the pillow and wept bitterly, until she fell
asleep.
She was awakened by a tap at the door. She got up and put her ear to
the wood panels. "It's Smith," said a low voice on the other side.
Because there was nothing else to do, she opened the door.
"Mulder is sound asleep," he said, "and I thought I better find the
ladies' bathroom for you. All the signs---" he stopped, and looked at
her. "Come on."
She went in the door he indicated, and found herself in a real
bathroom. Cold and dingy, but still, it had a toilet, a sink and a
tub, and large bars of yellow soap on the rim of the tub. She washed
her face and hands, and when she emerged, Smith was standing outside
waiting. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed and head down,
staring at something on the floor. He looked up and then looked back
down.
She turned her head, and seeing nothing, looked back at him.
"Sometimes there isn't anything," he said.
"You don't know a man with gray hair who chain smokes, do you?" she
replied.
"Because I hate riddles." She felt dizzy, and steadied herself
against the wall.
"You pick a peculiar way to show it," Smith said. He took her arm and
gently led her back to her room. "You are a riddle." He guided her
into the tiny room,
and, closing the door, pulled back the covers on the bed. "Well, the
sheets are clean."
"Why are we suddenly in three rooms?" she demanded, sitting down with
a thump.
The sardonic expression returned. "It seemed appropriate. Mulder was
fine with it."
"Are we safe?" she asked. "I thought---you needed to watch us---"
"Are you worried?" Smith asked. "Wake up Mulder, he's snoring next
door."
"I don't feel well," Scully heard herself saying. "I feel dizzy."
Smith crouched in front of her. "I'm on one side, Mulder's on the
other. Just pound on the wall. I'm a light sleeper." He was
efficiently pulling off her boots and socks before she knew what was
happening.
"Are you a good guy or a bad guy?" Scully asked suddenly. Smith
looked up at her, his face blank, before picking up her feet and
tucking them under the blanket.
She slept heavily for a while, and then, getting up, stumbled and
fell against the wall. In just a second, Smith opened the door, and
closed it before switching on the dim overhead light. Scully, her
shoulder rubbing against the wall, stared at him. "So, are you a good
guy or a bad guy?" she asked, as if a moment and not an hour had
passed.
"I'm a very bad guy, indeed," he said, unsmiling. His face was inches
away from her. "How have you managed to stay alive so long? I could
have killed you a hundred times."
"I assume you haven't because you need us. Or because you were
ordered not to."
She answered him in the same strained low tone he was using.
"Or because Mulder will kill me," Smith said. "Mulder would kill me,
even if it meant he would be alone here."
"What..." she swallowed. "How do you know?"
Smith stared at her. "Don't you know your own partner? He's the kind
that doesn't care if the sky falls, if he dies, if everyone dies, as
long as he first finishes the job."
Scully shook off the fatigue and the dizziness. "I do know that about
him," she said. [] 'Let the heavens fall, but let justice be done.'
How do you know that?"
Smith was silent for so long, she thought he wasn't going to
answer. "Everyone in----our----business knows Mulder." His lips
twitched in the first genuine smile she had seen from him. "They
don't really know you, though."
"Has this been some test?" she asked. "Some exam we had to pass?"
"That someone had to pass," Smith said. "Listen, the first order was
to get you in to the spring. No one said anything about getting you
out. Or anything else. Then, it looked like I wasn't supposed to come
out. Then, I wondered if I had missed something, and because I missed
it, we were all going to disappear."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Scully said, appalled.
Behind Smith, the door opened. "I do. So, you think we can all go
home now?"
Mulder looked completely recovered and completely homicidal as he
eased inside the room.
Scully wondered if she did know her partner; but Smith was talking
again. "I think you can," he said. "I'm leaving you once you're in
Turkey. This is the last place we can talk. If I were you, I'd go
nonstop back to D.C. and....not talk about me on the way. Turkey's
the next stop on the bus route."
"Were you here about oil reserves?" Mulder asked.
Smith smiled, the usual one that just barely moved his face. "Oil
makes the world go round, Mulder."
"What happens to you?" Scully asked.
"Nothing important," Smith said. He pushed past Mulder and left the
room.
Mulder slewed around, facing the closed door for a moment. He turned
back around and showed Scully his hand: he was holding their
passports and what looked like tickets. "He put them in my hand just
now," he said. "Who the hell is this guy?"
"When does the bus leave?" Scully asked. "I just want to get out of
here."
"Five," Mulder said. "By the clock downstairs, it's four."
"Let's go downstairs and wait," she said, and sat down to put on her
dingy socks and nasty shoes.
"I'm packed," he said. "We'll see if Smith leaves us in Turkey."
They went downstairs, and sat in the coffee room, with the other
travelers who were collecting for the bus. But Smith did not appear;
he had, apparently, already left them.
In Turkey, they were able to use Mulder's credit card and get on the
train to
Istanbul; there, they would be able to buy new clothes, and be clean,
and not stay in the same room.
Scully found the prospect depressing. Mulder sat decorously in the
clean train car, on the comfortable seat, and stared out the window
after courteously making sure she had a bottle of water, and a
sandwich. "How long have we been gone?" she asked, suddenly.
"Three weeks," he said, not looking. "My fish are probably all dead."
After an hour, she thought of something. "Why not John Donne?"
With a jerk, he turned away from the window. He didn't pretend to
misunderstand her. "I was locked in a bathroom once----accidentally---
-and the only thing to read was his collected poems." He half-
smiled. "So it became a party trick. I used to recite them at the
drop of a hat. He's very quotable. Later, I learned a lot of
Browning, and then, a lot of Whitman. But I never recited them."
After that, they didn't talk. Scully was once again just registering
impressions.
No one seemed to take any notice of them in Istanbul, but Mulder
decided they'd take Smith's advice and travel as nonstop as
possible. They were able to use a public locker-room at the airport
to shower and put on the clean clothes Mulder bought them at a duty-
free shop.
Scully stared at her lank hair. She wondered if she dreamed it all,
dreamed she had shared a bed with Mulder, that she had felt the heat
of his mouth. Maybe it was all a hallucination. She put her hands on
her waist. Mulder had got her sizes from her. Unable or unwilling to
find women's underwear, had returned with a pair of men's XS boxers
and a wife-beater's tee. She had sat outside, feeling unwilling to
bother looking at clothes. Now, she wadded up her bra in paper towels
and buried it in the trashcan. She turned away abruptly from the
mirror, from her empty gaze.
"There's a flight leaving in an hour," Mulder told her. He hadn't
shaved, and with the jeans and pullover, combined with the bright
white new running shoes, looked like an aging yuppie trying to dress
trendy. "You look like you feel better," he added.
"It's the pleasure of having a real toilet," she said grimly, knowing
he would laugh; and he did.
On the flight, Scully was delighted to see Mulder had sprung for
first class. He ate his meal and most of hers, and managed to keep
the Diet Cokes coming from the flight attendants; he watched the
second-run movie with pleased awe.
Scully tuned in the classical music, tilted back her seat, and slept.
When she awoke to go to the restroom, she climbed over a Mulder who
was watching another movie.
Even the chilly steel of the facilities and the roar of the engines
seemed sweet after the horrors of the latrines where she had been.
How unfair, she would remember those damned latrines and she was
already forgetting the expression of Mulder's face when---she put her
hands under the cold water and silenced the thought.
She went back to her seat and accepted a blanket from an attendant,
and slept dreamlessly for most of the flight.
Scully didn't know if Mulder renewed his strength from pop culture,
but he was a new man by the time they made their connection in New
York. He spent the short time complaining about how sore his back
was, and how he wanted to kill their Assistant Director. It was
quite like they had never left; unfortunately, Scully felt jet-lagged
and ready to go to bed. Alone.
Mulder must have felt tired enough, when they went to pick up his
car from long-term parking, he handed her the car keys. "You drive,"
he groaned. "My back is spasming."
When they had to pay what Mulder bitterly characterized as extortion
to cover the parking fees, he went into a tirade. Scully felt
apprehensively it wasn't just to annoy her.
"I don't care a rat's ass, Scully, I'm kicking the shit out of
Skinner.
He may have seen an opportunity to let you have a wonderful
vacation in Uzbekistan, but we both know that's bullshit. He still
loves these sub-rosa intra-mural, inter-agency games. He had the
money and the two idiots he could send to the other side of
the world." Scully glanced over at him. So he was monologuing again.
They must be back home. "I don't know if we were supposed to get
Smith killed
or what, but he sent us there for some little ploy that didn't work.
Instead, Smith brought us out when he could have killed us or
just let us be killed. Jesus knows what the hell he was doing with
us, riding through every shit-hole in fucking Azerbaijan. He's
probably got copies of our IDs and passports and selling them to
terrorists in Berlin, now."
Scully looked sideways at him. "You know Smith's not doing that. We'd
be dead if Smith wanted us dead."
Mulder was silent for a second. "Fuck him. I'm putting my foot so far
up Skinner's ass that he'll taste---" he glanced down at his
shoe "leather."
"Mulder, I agree completely, but listen to me, don't do it unless
you want us to both quit. Because we shouldn't give away that
we know he used us. We'll find out a lot more by playing dumb
than by going in with guns blazing." She shrugged her
shoulders. "Gosh, we must be back in the States. We're talking." Her
voice was acid.
Mulder picked at the sole of his shoe for a moment. "I guess you're
right,"
he said grumpily. He brightened. "It's only nine, so the bald
bastard'll be just having his second cup of coffee."
Scully slowed the car for the downtown exit. "It's better my way."
"We'll see. I'd love to see Skinner's face if you're pregnant. He
would freak to know that there was a miracle spring."
Scully was glad she had a red light. "What?" she asked, facing him.
He had his arm stretched along the seat back, and now he put his
hand on her shoulder. "What do you mean, what? I don't remember
using a condom back there in Azerbaijan." He raised his eyebrows
slightly. "Didn't you want to get pregnant, Scully? I thought the
whole point of the expedition was to---"
Her face felt hot. "I thought you didn't want to talk about it---
about having sex," she said, "That you meant for us to forget it,"
and had to turn away and drive through the green light.
After a long silent moment, Mulder said, in a stupefied tone, "Forget
about having sex? We didn't just have sex, Scully, we had great sex."
"You were sick, and you never talked about it," she said, sneaking a
look out of the corner of her eye at him. He was turned in the seat
staring at her. "I thought you were sorry it happened...." she
trailed off. She
hadn't sounded this weak since the fire truck incident in high school.
"I could never be that sick," he said. "And holy shit, Scully, Smith
was
right there with us until what, twenty minutes ago? I figured it was
good for you, too, since you seemed, uh, pretty happy at the time. I
still have
the scratches on my back. Give me a little credit."
"I'm sorry, Mulder. I haven't been thinking clearly. Of course, you
couldn't have, couldn't have done anything else."
"That's better," he said in a satisfied tone. "Smith *would* have
killed
us both if he'd had to listen to us in bed."
"Yeah, I know. Mulder, I love you." She took another stealthy look at
him. He
looked unsurprised, and nodded briskly.
"I love you too, and there's a parking space."
She parked.
Mulder stalked past Kimberly, Scully right at his heels like Robin to
his Batman---she was even thinking, "Holy shit, Batman" to herself.
Therefore she had an excellent view of Skinner, as he rose halfway
from his desk chair, turned ashen with shock, and sank back down..
"Jesus," Skinner said, one hand at his collar. "Jesus. When did you--
-
we thought you were dead. We thought you had been killed."
Mulder surveyed the assistant director for a moment, hands on hips.
"You're right, Scully. Your way is better."
"What about the other agent? I assume he's here, too?" The A.D. was
rapidly recovering his composure.
That nearly did it. Mulder's ears turned bright red. "Agent? Agent?
You need to be better informed. Who knows who that guy was working
for. He could have brought us right out, but noooo, we had to take a
tour through scenic fucking Uzbekistan!" He shifted his weight
forward, and Skinner involuntarily flinched. "They don't like
Americans in Uzbekistan. Sir."
Scully was leaning against the closed office door. "Sir, if we could
have some time before we report," she began. "We have been on the
road continuously for the past two days." She was trying not to
grin. Mulder loves me, she thought.
Skinner was breathing heavily through his nose. "Take two more days,
Agent," he said. "I'm happy to see you both are alive and well." He
eyed her suspiciously. "I'm happy to see you, at least."
"Oh, stuff it, sir," Mulder said, and wheeled around. Scully opened
the door and
they both left in good order. "Well, that went pretty well, I
thought," he hissed to her in the elevator.
"You're totally mentally incompetent," Scully said, light-headed. "I
don't want to drive. Can we just go home?"
Mulder drove them to his place, and went straight to bed. Scully,
having the pleasant surprise of finding the bathtub slightly dusty,
but otherwise clean, dumped half a bottle of Mulder's liquid soap
into water as hot as she could stand it, and soaked until the tub was
cold.
She came out, wearing his bathrobe, and saw that he was asleep. When
she sat down on the bed beside him, he slitted his eyes, and held out
one hand. She placed hers in it, and he pulled her down beside him.
He smiled once, and went back to sleep. With one hand, she pulled a
rubber band from her hair, and shook it loose; then, she went to
sleep herself.
It was early afternoon when she awoke. Mulder slept soundly, not
moving. She realized that he had never really slept, the entire time
they had been overseas. One of his hands was still loosely clasping
her wrist. She went back to sleep.
At some point, it got dark, and they moved under the covers, but
slept on. When Scully finally awoke, it was seven in the morning, and
she could hear water running in the bathroom sink; the morning news
was on the bedroom television.
Scully reached for the bathrobe and got up. "Mulder?" she called.
"In here. Come on in," he said, opening the door. He was shaking a
can of shaving cream and gestured at her to come in.
Feeling awkward, Scully sat on the closed toilet lid and watched
Mulder
prepare to shave. He still looked thin, and all at once showed the
marks of his short illness.
"Mulder," she began, and hesitated. He was smoothing shaving cream
on his cheeks, but he paused and looked down at her. "What was that
thing you said, when we were in bed?"
"Scully, we slept together for two weeks. You'll have to narrow it
down for me."
"That one night. You said it was something you remembered. It sounded
like part of a poem."
Above the white foam, his face reddened. "Oh. A poet named Hafiz. I
don't think he was from Azerbaijan or anything." He shook the razor
under the tap, and she thought he wasn't going to tell her. Turning
back to the mirror, he finally said to it, " 'Open your tunic: I
would lay my head Upon your heart----ah, deep within your side
Silence and shelter sweet I ever found." He took
a stroke, rinsed the razor. "Like I told Smith, I spent a lot of time
reading
at Oxford." He frowned at the mirror. "I stopped quoting poetry a
long time ago, because----well, because nobody wanted to hear it."
He turned and smiled lopsidedly at her, and she felt as if it were New
Year's Day.
The END.
Notes: I resisted heartily writing a sequel, but I went ahead and
did a lot of it, then began three other stories, then suddenly
decided to finish it for SYBIL. But MaybeAmanda midwifed it, and
Sybil did do this beta.
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